Audiences are committing 'blasphemy' by talking at gigs

If people pay good money to see a band, why don't they pay more attention?

The festival season is already under way. Those music fans who, like me, prefer to do their rocking beneath a roof rather than an umbrella, must now prepare themselves for a few months’ worth of hippy platitudes about how festivals are about more than just the music, man. With each passing year, that notion infuriates me more.

The whole thing, surely, is about nothing else but the music, and, personally, I prefer the darkened room, the closed-in atmosphere, and — call me old-fashioned — decent acoustics. What goes on when music is played under those conditions is sacred. Gene Simmons from Kiss calls it “electric church”, and rightly so.

In recent weeks, however, I have witnessed outright blasphemy, committed not by bands, but by audiences.

Since rock bands have amplification at their disposal, it is often forgotten that live music is a two-way street, that an audience is 50 per cent responsible for that alchemical reaction, which makes a concert magical. Rather like sexual congress, it only works if both sides are fully committed to the cause.

This fact became very apparent to me 10 days ago at the Camden Crawl — a terrific festival, which takes place in bars and clubs dotted around the north London district. All day and night, the streets of Camden were alive with hip, sharply dressed young revellers. The event was peaceful and successful; it sold out months in advance.

Inside the venues, though, it seemed as if this predominantly student-age demographic had no interest in watching or listening to the diverse entertainment on offer.

As I hopped from place to place, I found myself angered by these kids’ betrayal of the punter/performer code of practice. They were throwing their drinks all over the place, crashing into each other, screaming, shouting, swearing, arguing, crying, taking pictures of each other, texting, phoning, admiring each other’s clothes — the full gamut of youth cultural activity, except responding to the performance unfolding before them.

It was as if these youngsters were too wrapped up in their own make-believe episode of Channel 4’s Skins — or possibly their own deluded version of a night out with Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse — to be bothered with what was going on on stage.

At one venue, the Jazz Café, a queue of maybe 200 people were locked out on the street, while, inside, an up-and-coming duo called Slow Club had the quieter moments in their dynamic sound drowned out by idle chatter. The frustration on the duo’s faces spoke volumes: can’t we chuck this lot out, and have the 200 outside instead?

Of course, an audience has the right to veto. They pay their money, and if they don’t like what they hear, they can vote a band off by booing, as famously happened to Bob Dylan in the mid-Sixties, when he “went electric”. These people, by contrast, wouldn’t have noticed a musical revolution if it was happening before their very eyes.

When the indie duo MGMT played in London a few weeks ago, a similar scene unfolded. In advance, it was both a hot ticket, and a matter of some debate, as the band’s latest album had divided critical opinion. As they unveiled their new repertoire, there were neither jeers, nor bottles flying through the air, instead merely chatter, mobile phone activity, apathy.

So how has this apparent dumbing-down come to pass? With the growth in the live music industry, gig-going has become a mass cultural pursuit, and inevitably not all those in attendance are hardcore music fans. As most tickets are sold on the internet these days, and often sell out within minutes, it’s difficult for a band to target those diehards, without appearing elitist.

I am wary of being a curmudgeonly old rocker, pointing a disapproving finger at the young generation, especially given the free-admission privileges I enjoy as a critic. However, the contrast couldn’t have been more extreme between the Camden Crawl, and the gig I attended the following night (out of my own pocket, no less) by one of rock’s great old stagers, Iggy Pop. There, the average age was probably 20 or 30 years higher, but the air was crackling with energy and excitement.

Iggy was reunited with James Williamson, his guitarist from the mid-Seventies, for a complete rendition of the classic album Raw Power. For everyone in attendance, this really was “electric church”, a wonderful celebration of the moment.

Iggy, though a consummate, wizened performer, was visibly transported. He’d served notice that he would no longer be diving from the stage, mid-performance, owing to problems with his knees and hips. As it turned out, he must have flung his battered old sack of bones into the crowd five or six times. He gave far more than he’d intended, thanks to the audience’s commitment. Let’s hope that the younger folks in attendance were taking note.